


The Game ~  Episode One

by The_Thieving_Magpie



Series: The Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Thieving_Magpie/pseuds/The_Thieving_Magpie
Summary: The Game is a stylish and mature soap opera based on BBC Sherlock in an alternate version of Earth.As you go along, please remember this is alternate reality, characters and world alike.Sherlock re-imagined.It centers on the City of London, now completely under Jim Moriarty’s control, and a City-State all on its own.A new and dangerous Nation.Sherlock Holmes is his prisoner and lover, and they reside in a very highly fortified penthouse that is more fortress than flat.Sebastian Moran is the angry and jilted would be suitor of Moriarty, and John Watson struggles to rally a Resistance movement to free the City, and his closest friend.Mycroft and Lestrade are held in a secret location, kept alive solely to keep Sherlock under control.There are very strong subjects contained herein, torture, murder, non con, drug use, brutality, suicide, mental issues of all varieties, etc.General Trigger warnings for all these always apply!Extreme Material ~ You Have Been Warned





	

The Penthouse

 

Morning came, and Jim did not.

Six hours.

Noon arrived.

Pinned under Sherlock, gasping, literally pleading. But Sherlock needed to keep him occupied and stalled, because the moment Jim wasn’t - he was going to bring on WW3. That could not be allowed to happen. And so Sherlock in the way he had, had created a game, a new game, one that had his lover exhausted and enthralled. He couldn’t keep this going forever, it was going to be physically impossible to do so.

“Please.” Now Jim would resort to empty words, vacant promises. But with Sherlock looming over him, flat on his back and legs shakily wrapped around his once-consulting detective, Jim Moriarty was literally in no position to do better. What happened now was up to Sherlock, and all the clawing at his sides and back wouldn’t change a thing. “Please I need to come …please Sherlock .. let me ..h-how did you fucking learn to do this anyway .. how …how do you even know all these sexual things Sherly …?!”

Sherlock had fucked him for hours now, always bringing him to the very edge and then refusing to move. Refusing to allow Jim to touch himself and then just as the blissful precipice abated, began to work on him again with harsh, driving movements that hit the places that drove him right back there all over again. It was sexual torture and control of a degree that astonished even Jim. “It’s called Edging … and Denial .. and …how did you even know about it?!” Sherlock flinched a very small amount, because of course he had had no idea whatsoever that this was even a thing, so to speak. All he had known was the fact that he had to keep Jim occupied and as weary as possible. But this wasn’t going to hold out forever.

And he was incredibly sore.

Deep down blue balls aching. He was getting close to the point of no return this time, their sweat drenched bodies slipping together as he finally sank down onto Jim and pounded him in raging desperation, feeling Jim’s fingernails rake him and hearing that sound of wailing ecstasy. He had known they could only go so long, but he had bought some time. “Oh god … oh fucking god I can’t take it it’s too much …..Sherlock … oh .. fucking Christ …”

But of course, he did take it.

Every good cataclysm has an afterglow, and Sherlock kissed Jim’s forehead as they lay together, the cool breeze coming in one of the half opened windows.

“Better?”

“I hate you. My arse is so sore …”

“Mmm. Go back to sleep.”

“…………….just … for a while ….”

 

Soho Street ~ Unmarked Flat.

 

“This is War, Molly! Fucks sake, after what they did to you, how can you even question my methods at all?”

“Because right still remains right! Wrong is still wrong! That hasn’t changed! Just because a madman is in control, that doesn’t change it!”

John rubbed a hand down his face, and shook his head. “We’re going ahead with the plan. There’s no other way. There just isn’t.”

“I won’t be a party to it then. I have to live with myself.”

“Fine. Do what you feel is right.”

“It will damage Sherlock even more.”

“Molly, stop.”

John Watson wearily went over the details with the others. Some look a bit ill, others looked eager, ready to do this. Pleased, even, at the way John had planned it out. “Arsenic, in this compound, he won’t be able to detect. There’s no way. Now the remaining problem will be to get this to him without Sherlock possibly tasting the food first. That remains something we have to prepare for, and I think I have. I’ve worked out a way to get a message to him, so there’s no danger of it. “ They had tried so many times. Bombs, gas, poisons, snipers. Always foiled, always found out or betrayed. The last time, Moran had killed the sniper in a very colourful and truly horrific way - John still shuddered to think of the man gutholed with his own femur. It was - the stuff of nightmares.

“Arsenic is a painful way to die. I want him to suffer. He won’t suffer too long, but ..just a while.”

Molly turned away, disgusted and appalled. “You’ve changed so much.”

“Molly, I –”

“No! What the hell’s happened to you? Killing him yeah, if there’s no other way. But what you want - what you are insisting on - not only is wrong, but will hurt Sherlock. He’ll never forgive you. Not now. They’ve been together too long. Moriarty is a sick man. In any other situation he would be in an asylum getting treated and you know it!!”

John grit his teeth, and carefully measured his words. “I’m going to have this. I never said I was a good man. Or even decent, really. I’m not. I fall. I fail. I’m capable of violence, and cruelty. And now I’ve never been so thirsty for blood, Molly. I’m sorry. I hate what I’ve become. But that doesn’t change it.”

She turned away, looking nauseated. John went on. “The staff has to be compromised in a way that we get to him. It’s going to be rough as hell. If caught .. we’re dead. Worse than, really. Can’t .. live through that. Can’t risk it. Got me?”

They nodded.

John turned back to Molly, saddened. But he had not changed his mind. “It won’t be that long, Molly. Arsenic kills within a few minutes. But it just won’t be instant. I need that. I’m sorry, but I do. It’s the way it is. He made it this way.”

“He’s sick!”

“I don’t care anymore! That doesn’t excuse all that’s happened!!”

She walked out.

 

Highgate Prison.

 

Mycroft wondered sometimes, why Moriarty had chosen to revamp this ancient and bitterly cold place, when there were already functioning prisons easy enough to use. But of course, this was dramatic, this was theatrical. And no one was a bigger drama queen than that man. Lestrade, he had heard, had been moved into the Tower of London. How absurd, how carnival like, Mycroft had thought at the time.

Sherlock was with James.

Fucking him.

Living with him as his lover.

No … not lover. Fifteen years is a husband.

Mycroft understood being in love, even though it was somewhat a remote idea personally. He understood. But what he did not understand was the selling out of millions, potentially the entire world, for the sake of that love. And yet people did these things. It wasn’t unheard of. His brother had failed to snap James Moriarty’s thin neck and end the nightmare. Sherlock had failed them all, betrayed them all, and yet Mycroft knew that was nonsense. That might be the going sentiment, but he knew better. It was never about playing the hero, or even doing the right thing. Not with Moriarty.

There had always been openings to kill him, all through the years.

It would never be at Sherlock’s hand, even though he had effortlessly dispatched Magnusson.

“Brother mine, what have you done to us all for the sake of your little murderer?”

It was the Game.

It was the Obsession.

It was the Love.

A buzzer sounded, and Mycroft gasped as the electroshocks wracked his entire body again, sending him falling to the steel floor in agony. Torture every hour on the hour. Mycroft sometimes attempted to tell the time by their intervals. It was useless. But he needed to try something to maintain ordering in his wounded mind.

“Four shocks ….must …m-must be teatime …”

He smiled.


End file.
